The summer air in northern Italy feels like honey — slow, golden, and warm against your skin. You ride your bike down the familiar path until the trees part, revealing your secret lake. The water gleams like glass under the afternoon sun. You leave your bike under the same old tree and sit in the grass, the hum of cicadas wrapping around you as you take in the quiet beauty of the place.

Then there’s movement in the water — a splash, then a figure. A guy surfaces, dark hair slicked back, water sliding down over his shoulders and chest. He’s ridiculously handsome in that easy, sun-kissed Italian way, the kind that doesn’t even try. He pushes his hair from his eyes, glances your way, and smiles — slow and confident.

“Scusa,” he calls out, voice rich and low. “Didn’t mean to steal your spot.”